


The Pier

by Cottonstones



Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: Depression, Drinking, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Other, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-09 08:20:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6898237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cottonstones/pseuds/Cottonstones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shane is a mystery, a bundle of confusing contradictions, and maybe you came here tonight because you want to know more. You want to open the Pandora's box of Shane's personality and try to learn him the same way that you're learning the farm that you now call home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pier

**Author's Note:**

> This is a slight re-imagining of Shane's two-heart event in the game. Also loosely based on some of the events that happened between my farmer and Shane.

The paper in your hand crinkles quietly in the silent night.

Well, it's never _quite_ silent in Stardew Valley, especially in the summer, when it feels like you can't take a step without hearing a chorus of crickets and bull frogs, all too eager to make their presences known.

That morning, you'd checked your mail, still rubbing sleep from your eyes as your loyal dog bounded around in the open clearing of farmland that you'd spent a good majority of the previous day cleaning up. Your muscles still ached with effort, but there are really no such things as days off for farmers like yourself. In the mail had been an envelope - no return address and just your first name scribbled messy and off-centered in the middle of the pristine white.

You're used to odd letters, the fellow residents of Stardew Valley asking you for favors; sometimes, Caroline sends you small clippings of recipes that she thought that you ought to try, things that she leafed through in magazines when business was slow at Pierre's.

You'd tried to suppress a yawn as you slid your finger along the back flap of the envelope, breaking the seal and lifting out the delicate paper. The message is short and simple, to the point; you'd really expected no less from the name etched in the same messy scrawl as your own.

_Meet me at the pier in the woods. Tonight. 9 PM. Don't be late._

_\- Shane_

That had led to now: 8:55 PM. You're stepping over broken sticks as you walk the slight slope where the grass of the woods gives way to the reedy ground near the pier. From here, you can hear the quiet lull of the water lapping against the thick wooden poles keeping the pier standing. Already, you can make out Shane's stocky figure in the flickering orange light of the torch that he'd brought with him.

Shane doesn't move, not even as you walk toward him, your boots making a dull thudding noise as you walk. He's not surprised to see that you've arrived, and you wonder for a moment what his reaction would have been if you hadn't come. How long would he have waited here? How long would he have stood here to see if you would show up? Then again, this is Shane, and, for all you know, maybe he's always here, maybe this is regular practice and you just happen to be included this time.

You come to stand next to Shane on the edge of the pier. The small pond around you is dark but lively with animals that you can't see, fish and frogs and bugs all sharing the space with you. There's a light breeze tonight, and you can catch the scent of beer in the air.

"I said, don't be late, but that didn't mean be early," Shane says, his voice thick and holding more amusement than you’d ever heard from him.

Now he glances at you, his eyes too dark to make out in the dim light. You think that maybe you can see a hint of a smile across his scruffy face, but you can't be too sure. Really, you aren't too sure about anything, not even why you decided to come out here tonight. You don't really know Shane all that well. You've lived in the valley for a little over a month and, in that amount of time, you can count the number of positive interactions that you've shared with Shane on one hand. Yet here he is, inviting you to meet him at night at this isolated little pier.

Shane is a mystery, a bundle of confusing contradictions, and maybe you came here tonight because you want to know more. You want to open the Pandora's box of Shane's personality and try to learn him the same way that you're learning the farm that you now call home, digging into Shane like you do the hardened ground, turning it soft to plant, to create and grow. You're not really sure how Shane would feel if he knew you were comparing him to soil, but it makes sense for you, at least right now.

"At least I made it, right?" you say, trying to sound confident, like Shane's an old friend instead of the ill-tempered acquaintance that you know him to be.

Shane huffs out something that sounds like a laugh, but just a little strangled, a little off.

"Here," he says instead, leaning over. You feel him pressing a cold, sweating bottle of beer into your hands.

"Thanks," you say instead of questioning, instead of wondering why, of all things, Shane invited you out here to drink. You don't open the beer, spinning the bottle around in your hands instead, and Shane glances at you for just a moment before he turns his gaze outward to the pond.

"Lemme ask you something," he says.

Nerves fill your stomach. Shane can be mean, can throw barbs that prickle against your skin, that come so unexpected that, even if you already know that he might insult you, you're never quite prepared for it.

Still, you nod. "Go ahead."

Shane takes a breath and lets it out in a shaky huff. "You actually like it here so far?"

You wait, as if you're expecting more, but Shane is looking at you, one eyebrow quirked, like he isn't sure if you heard his question.

"I..." you start, closing your mouth like an idiot, head spinning. Everyone here is nice, the land is nice, you're slowly and steadily making money, and you don't have to sit at your desk job, killing yourself for a big, nameless corporation, like -

Your thoughts trail off, and your eyes seek out the dull, faded, patchy, blue Joja Company hoodie that Shane is wearing even now. He's not the first person to ask you this question, but he _is_ the first to phrase it in a way that feels like you're allowed to say no.

Your answer isn't exactly a no. You do like it here, at least that's what you told Mayor Lewis and Caroline and Emily and Penny.

"I do, but..." you start. You hear Shane let out that garbled half-laugh again.

"Ah, 'but.' That's good. Keep going."

"But it doesn't really feel like home. Maybe I'm still too new, maybe I'm adjusting or something. This doesn't feel real, doesn't feel like mine...though my old life back in the city doesn't feel like home, either. I'm kind of...nowhere? Like, I'm isolated even though I'm here, you know?"

Shane's quiet, and you feel panic claw at your insides. What answer does he want? Maybe not the one that you gave to him. You should have spouted out your canned answer: restoring Grandpa's farm really was everything you ever dreamed.

"Oh," Shane says, "I know. Everything in my life right now was supposed to be temporary. I can't make it out in the city. I move in with my aunt, I get a job at Joja - just for a 'couple of months' - then I fucking wake up and it's three years ago. I'm still at Marnie's, I'm still working at Joja, I still can't make it up out of this hole."

Shane looks at you, eyes studying you for a moment. "Don't fall down that hole, Little Farmer."

You go warm at the nickname, but you feel cold like the beer in your hands. To say that you were surprised at Shane's behavior, at how candid he's being right now...that would be saying the least. Never did you imagine Shane letting you into his life, his fears, the quiet things that so many people, including yourself, choose to tuck away, folded neatly and squarely into a box tucked inside the pit of your gut, only allowed to come out on nights like these when the air smells like alcohol and the night is deeper and darker than your thoughts.

You open your mouth to speak, but Shane beats you to the punch.

"If you don't drink it, then it'll get warm."

You look at your hands and realize that he means the beer. You pop the cap and drink from it. The beer is still cold, crisp in your mouth, and you've never been a big fan of the stuff, but this is doable. Shane watches you after you lower the bottle.

"Look at you," he says, that same humor playing to his voice, so foreign to you. "You'd put the fish to shame. Don't make it a habit, though. You don't want to be like - "

He trails off, and you wonder how he was going to choose to end that sentence. Like him? Pam? Anyone else that makes it a point to spend all night at the Stardrop Saloon? You don't finish his thought, and he lets it slide away like a droplet of condensation, falling from your fingertip and splattering against the worn wood of the pier under your feet.

There's a silence that stretches like a long summer night between you, too many heartbeats to count before Shane speaks again.

"You know how long it's been since I had a good baked yam?"

For a moment, you're taken aback by the sudden change in topic, the shift sudden around you. Yams?

"Marnie hates the things, won't cook 'em, won't even buy 'em. I think that Jas might like them if she tried them, but she's stubborn as hell, even for me, and then, when I'm thinking about how long it's been since I've eaten a good, buttery baked yam, you come along and put one right in my hands."

Oh. Now it makes sense. The yam, the one saving grace of your relationship with Shane. The town has their birthdays tacked onto a board in the center of the valley. You'd only just arrived; you'd barely had a batch of crops growing, barely any gold to call your own. You'd noted Shane's birthday, one of the firsts in the valley. You'd wanted to start on a good foot with everyone, wanted to make friends and be accepted, but you had nothing to give and doubted very much that Shane would want a flower that grew common all over the town.

You'd been in the mines a few days before and had, by some luck, unearthed a yam, huge and ripe and perfect. You'd stopped in at the saloon on the night of Shane's birthday, tired and worn from the day's work, and spotted Shane leaning against the nearest wall, sipping from a beer like he was now.

You weren't sure, you still aren't, about why you're drawn to Shane, what compels you to speak to this man who has more anger and bile in him than good things. Whatever it is, it made you walk up to him without hardly knowing him and hand over your reward from the mines. Shane had brightened at you, had smiled for the first time that you'd ever seen before and accepted it. He'd started at least not glaring at you quite as hard after that. You hadn't realized that it meant much to him at all.

"Hardly anyone remembers my birthday - or, if they do, then they choose not to participate," Shane says. "Not that I blame them. I'm not the easiest to be around."

You want to tell him that he's wrong, that he isn't so bad. He _isn't_. He's rough around the edges, hard, strong like stone, but now you can see the soft layer underneath where things begin to crumble, where he'd break with a well-aimed strike with a pick-axe.

"Why did you invite me here?" you ask instead, an impulse that you can't control.

Shane's mouth quirks up in a partial smile. "I think that I felt like you'd understand...also, maybe because you don't know me, maybe because it's easier to tell strangers how you really feel instead of people you know."

You nod, understanding the feeling but knowing at the same time that you don't always want to be a stranger to him. You'd like to be someone who Shane can trust just because he knows that he can count on you.

The night creeps on, and your beer is gone. Shane picks up three empty bottles and stretches. For a moment, in the light of the torch, you can see the holes in his hoodie, the material pleading for a patch to bind it back together.

"I better stop before my liver keels over completely," Shane says. He wobbles, barely on his feet, and you want to ask if he'll make it home alright, but you're not too far from your farm and he's even closer to Marnie's place.

You nod, unable to keep him any longer, the oddity of the night sinking into you.

"Good night, Little Farmer," Shane says before he turns away, the empty bottles clinking together as he walks from you.

"Good night, Shane," you manage, still looking at the dark pond water.

He'd left his torch behind, either for your benefit or because he forgot, maybe because his hands were full from his empty bottles. You scoop it up and wait until the sound of his footsteps disappear before you make your own way home.


End file.
